Current mood:	no work tomorrow pleeeease
Current music:	golden globes
Entry tags:	csi fic, fic

stuff and stuff.
-I'm sure most of you saw George Clooney's magical acceptance speech or will read about it tomorrow, but my favorite Golden Globes incident so far was Johnny Depp on the red carpet, starting a story about his daughter by saying "Well, we were playing Barbies..."

-also, I like to think that they play Barbies in french.

Also, some fic that might not make too much sense. I can't really tell, anymore.

Title: getting to know
Author: crimsonclad
Fandom: CSI
Pairing: Nick/Greg
Rating: PG-13
Note: because kissingchaos9 had to work yesterday. Seriously, on MLK? Ridiculous.



Greg's waiting for Cara outside the club, because she got stuck with an old friend by the bar, but he was dying for some fresh air and open space. She had to beg him to come out at all, to get glammed up, and all he wants to do is head home and sleep. He smiles at the thought, because Catherine had warned him the job would make him grow up, but he hadn't predicted he would become practically geriatric—

"Hey, look at the pretty boy! You know, blow job alley is on the other side of the building."

Greg loses his smile pretty quick. It's been awhile since this happened— mostly because it's been awhile since he went out in eyeliner and his hair glittering, and even longer since he ended up wearing his club gear anywhere by himself. Come on, Cara he thinks, but they're drunk and mean and nowhere near done.

He doesn't think he'll end up bleeding, even though one of them jostles his arm. They're mostly whistling at him, saying things about how he must look on a streetcorner. They use all the ugly words with no imagination at all, laugh, jeer. The last one shoves him a little, enough to remind him that he's alone and they could break him, if they wanted.

They head inside just as Cara comes out, and she slips her arm through his elbow with a grin. "Okay, let's go, Grandpa," she laughs, and he manages to mostly smile back.

---

Two weeks later, at Nick's barbeque, Greg turns around to see the one with sandy blond hair. "Hey, Greg, this is my friend Jimmy," Nick says. "Jimmy, this is Greg Sanders from the lab."

Greg reaches out automatically, but Jimmy knows exactly who he is. And Greg looks behind him and sees the other three, and Nick is introducing all of them, Matt and Will and Dean, each handshake another reassurance of recognition.

"Hey," Greg says, and Dean hides his smirk, but they all know how this is going to be.

---

The problem is, Greg likes being Nick's friend. He likes hanging out and watching sports and bad movies, and he's kind of ridiculously flattered that Nick has added Greg to his social circle.

And he even figures that if he had met the guys here, holding a Bud Light while Nick flipped burgers, that they would have been pleasant, nice to be around. And if they had seen him at the club the weekend after that, they would have teased him about the makeup and messed with his hair. They're nice guys. Nick played in their baseball league for awhile when he first moved to Vegas, and they still hang out. They're Nick's pals, and they're— yeah, nice enough guys.

But the timeline is what it is, and Will still sneers at Greg when Nick isn't paying attention, which is most of the time, no matter what daydreams Greg still indulges in. Dean makes dry comments about Greg's taste in music that sound like jokes to anyone who wasn't there the night he got up in Greg's face and called him a cocksucker. And then Matt follows Greg out to his car with a few choice words and a suggestion—

"Stop coming over here."

And Greg knows how important the sequence of events always is. They were Nick's friends before Greg ever was, and they hated him before they met him, and he nods as he drives away.

---

Nick keeps asking. Greg stops saying yes.

---

Of course, Nick decides to throw Greg a birthday party, but doesn't mention anything about Greg being the guest of honor to anyone who isn't from the lab. And that means that Greg can't say no, and gets to spend his special day trying to stay as far away from his four favorite people as he possibly can.

But Greg's birthdays tend to suck, which is probably why Matt is so drunk when Greg accidentally bumps into him. And Greg is used to bumping into people like Archie and Catherine and Sara, none of whom would ever mind if he put a hand on their hip to steady himself.

Matt, though, snarls and shoves Greg away, because he once saw Greg wearing eyeliner, and that means that Greg wants to have sex with men, especially ones that hate him.

"Don't fucking TOUCH me," Matt sneers, hands curled into fists.

It's like every other ugly incident Greg has had with these guys at Nick's place, except this time Matt is too inebriated to realize they're in a full room, with people staring. Warrick comes over to stand at Greg's shoulder, and Greg remembers a time when that never would have happened, but he still breathes easier.

"Didn't see you man, sorry—" he tries, but Matt's been exchanging glances with Jimmy, who slides over with an ugly look on his face.

They could have been friends, Greg thinks faintly. Not good ones, but they could have eaten hot dogs and watched Office Space together. It could have been easy.

"What the hell is going on?" Nick asks, slipping in the middle of their tense little stand-off, and Greg slumps as Warrick puts a hand on his shoulder.

"I told you not to come here anymore, you pathetic fag," Matt spits, and Greg closes his eyes briefly, pretends he's anywhere else.

"You need to shut the fuck up," Warrick growls, because Nick's looking too stunned to say anything.

"Hey man, we know all about him. Saw him standing out on the corner, ready to give it up—"

"Saw me waiting outside a club for a friend," Greg mutters, and Jimmy snorts.

"A friend, right, was his name John?"

"Cara, actually. She works at the Bellagio." In their Accounting Department, but hey, let them think she's a dancer, or a cocktail waitress.

"Sure. You should have seen him, Nick. Bet he doesn't show up for work like that, makeup and shiny pants."

Nick turns to look at Greg, which stings for a minute, before he starts talking. "Has this been going on for awhile?"

"Homophobia? Yeah, it's pretty well established in our American culture, Nick."

"I wondered why you stopped coming over. Greg, why wouldn't you tell me something like this?"

Happy birthday. "Sorry," he chokes out, seeing Dean's grin from the living room. "I should go—"

Nick holds his hand up. "Uh, no, I think you should stay and anyone who has a problem with you should leave."

Jimmy sputters. "Nick, what are you—"

"Yeah, you should go," Nick says, firmly, then turns back to Greg. "Hey, man, you ready to open your presents?"

Dean is already muttering under his breath and grabbing his jacket, but Will steps up to Nick, his expression split between disbelief and disgust. "Are you kidding? You've known us for years, man—"

"Apparently not," Nick cuts him off. "Bye. Hey, Greggo, presents, man! Grissom even sent something, since he couldn't come. It smells kind of like embalming fluid, but that's pretty much expected, right?"

He comes to Greg's other shoulder, Warrick still standing strong on the other side, and they both herd him into the dining room, their joking voices almost covering the sound of the front door slamming.

---

Greg waits till everyone else has cleared out, because he wants to say thank you. Also, he sort of falls asleep on Nick's couch after drinking too much in relief, and it isn't until Nick sits down next to him that Greg startles out of his doze and realizes everyone else is gone.

He sits up, checking his chin for drool and trying to straighten out his t-shirt. "Oh, wow. Didn't mean to pass out, there. I should probably—"

"Sit here for a minute? And maybe tell me why you pretended to get along with those guys for so long."

Greg sighs. "What did you expect me to do?"

Nick reaches out and drops his fist on Greg's knee. "Man, are you kidding? Did you really think I'd be like them, that I'd act like a total jackass and call you names?"

"No, I—"

"Because, what, I'm from Texas, so—"

"No! Fuck, Nick, it wasn't like that. But they're your friends! What, was I supposed to do, tattle on them and come out to you in one breath? I didn't want to make you choose, or something. I thought, I don't know, maybe they'd get over it."

"Right. Well, I'm not. Over it."

Greg looks up sharply. "What? You said—"

"Is Cara your girlfriend? Cara from the Bellagio?"

Greg blinks at the sudden shift. "Cara? No, we're friends— what?"

Nick leans closer. "Hmm, okay then. Well, since you've decided I'm not a homophobe prone to random acts of violence, I'm going to extend you the same courtesy, how does that sound?"

Greg still feels kind of disoriented from his inadvertent nap, and he's about to ask Nick what on earth he's talking about— but then Nick is kissing him, running a hand through the hair at the base of his neck.

"I would have chosen you," Nick is murmuring into his mouth. "Greg, of course I would have chosen you."

"I—" Greg tries, but Nick is moving closer still, and his mouth is hot, and sweet, and Greg doesn't understand at all. "I didn't know—"

"You remember—" Nick starts, before pausing to sweep his tongue along Greg's lower lip. "You remember what Jimmy said?"

"He said a lot of things, Nick," Greg manages, and his tone would probably be more bitter if Nick wasn't working a careful hand up his thigh.

"He said I should see you. In your makeup, and your shiny pants."

Greg laughs. "Yeah?"

"He was wrong about a lot of things, Greg. But I think he might have been right about that."

"I could go home and change, if you want," Greg suggests, but Nick's hands are already inching up underneath the edges of the plain t-shirt he's wearing. It isn't club gear, not even close, but he doesn't think he'll be wearing it much longer, so he's not going to worry about it.

"Don't go anywhere," Nick whispers. "Stay, stay," he's begging, laughing, and Greg is happy to oblige.